Melody
by Haruhiname
Summary: Ellena is teleported into a book that was given as a gift for her artistic curiosity of europen folklore. She there meets all of the amazing creatures of old that she had drawn and crafted with clay. Yet there is one that she meets that she didnt realize will fulfill the emptiness that all of her artwork had not filled; a certain elf that she can call a rescuer, a companion, a love
1. Prelude

Prelude

The melody of autumn has finally emerged from its slumber as I gaze across the busy streets of central Houston. Yellows and reds fill the trees as their lifeless leaves fumble to the ground, surrendering to the arise of the new season. Sweaters, boots, scarves and hats are seen on every passerby as clouds of smoke puff from their breaths. People are redying themselves for the festivities ahead. I myself am giddy with excitement as I remember previous holidays that have taken my breath away with all of the wonderful lights and feasts. Friends and family from all walks of my parents lives will soon be coming to our house to celebrate another year ended. Yet, as the child I am, I was only looking forward to the bundles of surprises I would soon find under our familys christmas tree labeled "Ellena".

Mother looked down at me as I walked hand in hand with her down the busy sidewalk. She smiled, "Ellena, what do you say we get some ice cream after this last errand? We have been busy all day and you have been a very patient girl. How about it? I think you deserve it for your good behavior!"

"Oh, yes maam!," I exclaimed, cheery at the thought of my mothers' favorite icecream shop on the way back to the car. "Thank-you Mother!" I yiped and picked up my pace a little, encouraging mother to do the same.

Today was Friday, one of the few days that my mother wasnt usually working. On days like these, she always tried her best to finish whatever chores and errands she could think of while she was working throughout the week. Her off days were mostly busy, but she tried her best to spend as much of it with me as possible. Even if it meant for me to tag along as she paid various bills or visit old friends that lived on the way. She always apologized prior to such ventures with me, but I would always end up enjoying myself regardless of what kind of errand she was running. She made everything she did feel like an adventure.

In events where a child is away from the parents, one could imagine the child festering scorn or remorse to a degree within themselves towards thier parents. But it wasnt so with me. I knew my mother wasnt trying to be mean to me, instead I knew the importance of my mothers' occupation. She saves lives. Mother was an intensive care nurse in a well established hospital close to our house. She loved her patients as if they were her own flesh and blood. There are many days when she would come home and victoriously say, "Enjoy life while you have it my dear! Today, another precious soul was saved from death!" But there would also be the few days when she would come home late and sorrowful. On days like these she would only tell me, "Enjoy life while you have it my dear."

Mother was stronger on these days then all the others because she refused to stay remorseful. As soon as the next day of work came around, she would leave with more vigor and animation then previously. She resonated a determination that wants to go farther in order for such event to never happen again. She was my hero.

"What is the last errand Mother?" I asked. Mother simply said, "The bank. I need to cash a check that came in the mail."

We soon arrived at the entrance of a very large building. I looked up towards the sky to behold a seemingly innumerable amount of floors. The shiny glass walls shimmering in the reflection of the sun.

Entering the building, there were many people dressed in expensive suits and dresses. An air of sofistication filled this place. Mother and I waited in line behind a few other customers as we watched the bustle of the streets outside the glass walls. Holding close to my mother, I directed my gaze towards a tall stranger dressed in dark brown. He eased in the line behind us, awaiting the next teller. Somehow, I felt nervous that such an imposingly tall and dark figure was behind my mother and I. Stealing a glance behind me, I saw him reaching into his coat. The outline of an object was barely visible where his hand had went. Catching my eye, he looked towards me and replaced his hand at his side once more and smiled. It was a nervous smile.

Clenching my mothers coat and hand, I stepped forward with mother as a customer was accepted at a tellers window. Mother noticed my unspoken disturbance and looked to me, "Whats wrong dear?"

But before I could explain, two loud bangs echoed within the vast walls of the bank. My mother ducked down out of reflex, tugging me into her chest and taking me down with her. The man behind us, taking swift strides towards a tellers window, yells for everyone to freeze and to put their hands in the air. With my face still looking at my mother, she slowly begins lifting her hands. I peek over her shoulder and watch as others, with fear on their faces, do the same.

The man then turns to the teller and commands her to give him all the money that she had. My heart started beating fast as I looked at mothers face. She was scared. I then followed her gaze. She wasnt looking at the man with the gun, but to the customer in line ahead of us. He was fumbling in his pockets looking for what i thought was his phone. To my horror, he drew out a small gun. Did the guy think he was going to shoot that man robbing the bank? The woman beside the man in line yelped when she saw the weapon which alarmed the man robbing the bank. Instantly, another bang rang through my ears. This time I covered them and pressed my face to Mother.

"I told everyone to freeze! If anyone decides to move again, their going to get the same!" the robber hysterically cried, shooting another round into the ceiling. The robber then turned to the next teller and demands more money. I begin to cry, but I felt a shift in mothers clothing. I look up and I see her take her scarf from her neck. She looks down to me and hugs me close. Frozen, I watch as she inches closer to the shot man. ' _Mother! What are you doing?! That man is dead! Dead! Theres no hope for him!_ ' my mind screamed as she kneels down slowly next to the man. I wanted to scream, yell, shout for mother to come back to my side but I was motionless, afraid, a coward. She presses her scarf on the wound and checks for any signs of life. But the movements she made were noticed by the robber, who spins around and yells in disgust, "You wretch! I told you not to move!" And before I could feel my next heart beat pounding within me, my body shook with the resonation of the gun firing at my mother. It was a perfect shot. I watched as her body fell backwards, her head lolling on the ground and then facing my direction. Her expressionless face will haunt me for the rest of my life; my mother in a pool of her own blood, shot between her open, lifeless eyes.


	2. Chapter 1 The Book

Chapter 1

The Book

Subtle notes echo off the strings of a grand piano. Forelorn notes, questioning the future of the composer. Their gentle fingers stroke the halls, the staircase, the windowpanes, tapestries, reminding the listener of beauty and love lost. My fathers melodies soon reach my ears in my room upstairs. It is early morning as I look at the clock on the wall.

6 am. ' _Its that time again._ ' I remind myself as I round my feet out of bed. This is how my father has woken me up every morning since my mothers funeral.

At first, it had troubled me that father was always mourning mother day after day through this song. But as the days, weeks, months, and years went by, the melody began to sooth the emptiness of mothers absence. And from the deduction of a more mature mind then that of the youth I was when the event had taken place, I realize that this was his only way to keep the memory of mother alive within himself and within this home. Although father has yet to title this melody he recites every morning and evening, I have secretly dubbed it "Aria." This was mothers first name and since it is a song for her memory, I thought that this name would suffice.

My room was fairly clean considering the lack of an influential mother to guide in the duties of women . It was a rather small room compared to the other rooms in the house. Our house is composed of three levels, excluding the attic. The first floor has the kitchen, library, music room, two guest rooms, a dining area and a living area. The second floor is where father's room resides, along with his personal study, more guest rooms, another living area and a private music room. This is the room he plays in the mornings and evenings. Well, this is the room he stays in most of his days. The third floor is where my room is. There is also a studio for all of my artwork and sculptures connected to my room by a bathroom. And finally there is a small resource room for all of my studies. Technically, the third floor is my 'lair' if I could call it something.

After my mothers death, I retreated to the inner chambers of my mind (and room), refusing to give anyone the 'key' to open me up. So, as my father stays in his music room, I stay in my art lair, filling the walls with images that resurrect themselves from my mind. Many of my drawings consisted of duels between two mideval knights on horses or of the fearsome gods of myth. They would usually emmit an air of frustration, or anger. Well, that is what some have said when my father invites old friends over. Yet many were captivated by their realistic qualities.

However, not all of the things I have crafted felt irritated. Whenever I thought of mother before her death, when I remember the feelings of innocent joy and happiness, my hands begin creating something different. They would compose images of beautiful creatures, people with grace in their steps, people with fierce desire to do good. Their faces would always portray determination and wisdom accumulated from many years of experience of good and bad. People who couldnt die nor age.

I washed my face from the sleep in my eyes. Looking into the mirror beholding my image, I remind myself of my age. I am now 20. Ten years have passed since that day where I lost the hero of my life. My brown hair was short and tosseled from sleep. My frame has always been small, since I was child I had been the smallest in my class at school. Always at a disadvantage, I was teased often because of it. I was called 'The little rich Midget,' or 'Miss Mute,' which still irritates me up to this day. Despite the devastating blow that the death of my mother had brought me, I had refused to tell anyone of my mothers death. So my avoidance of communication was more ammo for their ruthlessness.

Dressing myself in a simple shirt and jeans, I opened the door to my studio and gazed at the half finished sculpture on the table. It had been a continuing project for many long days. I sat on my stool, drawing myself closer to the table and wet my hands in the bowl of clay-water. The figure that my hands were crafting was of the immortal creature in my many drawings. However, unlike my drawings, I have only managed to recreate the head portion of this creature. This man-creature had a beautiful face with long touseled hair braided on both sides of his head that formed a long braid gathered in the back. His eyes were fixated on a subject as his eyebrows furrowed to emphasized his serious face. Today, I knew I was to work on his ears and neck. From my drawings, it showed that I have made these creatures have long ears that ended to a point. Strange, how he looked with those ears. _'He would have been normal if it wern't for these ears.' I_ thought. But straightway, my fingers began thier work.

After a few hours at work, I slid off my stool and gazed at the final piece. The man-creature that was gazing sternly back at me looked so beautiful, I would have mistook him for a woman. _'Which is great because my father wouldn't agree with me crafting mens heads on a regular basis.'_ I thought as I cleaned my hands off in the restroom, still glancing back at the head resting on my table.

Father's melody had far ended when I had finished changing from my clay encrusted clothes and began walking down the stairs towards the kitchen. Memories of mother rested heavily in the first floor of the house. You see, mother's favorite room in the whole house was the kitchen. I believe this was so because she also loved to cook. It seemed that it calmed her if she were having a rough day. Father and I can still remember what great and wonderful aromas would drift from this single room into the rest of the house. Her creations were always amazing. But those days have long since past. A new aroma now comes from the kitchen, and it is usually one of the three smells that frequent this kitchen; burnt, nothing, or horrid. Yet, not today. Today, it smells pleasant?

"Good morning my dear!" Exclaimed my father as I had reached the bottom of the stairs. He held open his embrace ready for me to return the gesture. I was shocked, it was usually my father that would make food in the morning, yet he wasnt cooking at all. I returned the gesture and gazed over his shoulder to see not one, but three strangers in the kitchen.

"Father, we have guests?" I asked, uneasy with my current choice of clothing. I hadn't expected company.

"Oh, yes, I forgot to remind you of my comrades visiting this morning! Remember when I mentioned a close friend of mine in France who absolutely loved your artwork? Well he had called a few months ago requesting to come and to view your work in person!"

"Yes. And might I introduce myself to you in person as well?" spoke the tallest of the three in the company. His presence was pleaseant to say the least. He bowed and I returned his greeting with a curtsy. As he bowed, a whiff of cologn had entered my nostrils. _'So this is what I smelled."_

"My name is Faust Bozonnet. And you must be the Lady Ellena Dubois?" Mr. Bozonnet asked, smiling.

"Yes Sir, I am she." I said, curiously looking at the other two behind this man.

Upon watching my gaze, he stuttered, "Oh yes, how rude of me, these are my companions that have also requested your presence. Alexis Cazenave to my left here, and to my right Hugo Favre."

I watched as they both bowed. The one to the left was showing his balding top and the other, a full head of red hair.

"We are here to meet our Mr. Dubois prodigy of a child!" said Alexis, recovering his baldness with a top hat.

"Quite so, and a beauty to look upon as her work I see!" exclaimed Mr. Hugo.

Blushing at the last comment, I turned to my father, "To my art room I suppose?" slightly embarrased due to the fact that it wasnt exactly tidy up there. Not for guests.

"Oh! What a collection!" exclaimed Mr. Bozonnet as he took out an eye spectacle and examined the paintings propped against the wall closer. The other two were in like manner, examining, gazeing, aweing, and cooing over other pieces scattered throughout my studio. Sculptures, and the suchlike being praised as if they had made themselves. I chuckled to myself at the grown men behaving in such a way towards artwork, as if the pictures had lives of their own!

"Well done, well done Lady Dubois! You certainly are the one we have been expecting to find!" Mr. Bozonnet turned towards me with mirth glazed on his eyes. My father, standing next to me gently laced his hand upon my shoulder. "Yes, she is ofcourse a Dubois after all!" My fathers' tone seemed all too much prouder than usual.

"Yes, yes she is." Mr. Bozonnet said as the air around him changed from that of discovery to internal debate.

"I do believe this girl is quite brilliant. Brilliant enough that is." Remarked Mr. Favre, the one who seemed to favor me for more than just my artwork. I shyed from his gaze and looked towards Mr. Bozonnet. His expression turn from a look of debate to resolve.

"Yes, well, my dear. You are quite the gifted and priveledged one to have a father such as yours! It is best you value your pa's company more!" And swooping in closer to me, he spoke in a hushed voice, "You will surely value it more when it isn't convenient."

I froze where I stood as he then took out from under his coat a small brown book. Or was it a book? He held it for a few moments, petted the soft suede cover one last time, and handed it to me. As I took the book he whispered, "Use it wisely."


	3. Chapter 2 The Light

Chapter 2

Light

The evening's darkness was pierced by the soft glow of the lamp on my study desk. It had been two nights since my fathers visitors from France finally left. The day they arrived, they had decided to stay the night here at our house in the guest chambers. Of course, since the gifting of the book from Mr. Bozonnet, I have managed to slink away into my lair. Not arousing until dinner that evening and for their departure the following morning. Maybe it was because I wasn't used to guests staying at our house. _'Or maybe it's because that man is very strange!_ ' Yet, there wasn't another encounter with Mr. Bozonnet throughout the rest of their visit.

My gaze wandered from the books on my book case to the single book that laid before me on my desk. The low light enhancing its mysteriousness. I have yet to touch it since I had placed it here in my study. I wasn't fond of Mr. Bozonnet's advisory after giving this to me. Maybe there is something dangerous about it?

"My Ellena, would you come down for dinner this evening?" spoke my father outside my study door. Surprised, i straightened up my appearance, and walked briskly towards the door. "Yes father, i'm sorry but i must have lost track of time!"

Dinner was the same as it has always been in the Dubois household, well, since mother passed. Father always had the desire to quest through the kitchen in order to prepare something wonderful as his wife had once before. You see, I had long since offered to cook and clean in mothers absence, but father simply refused! He would only tell me that, "It is an honor to take up my loves duties. It is no burden at all! Actually it gives me something to do with my time."

Father was, and still is, a professional pianist. He had at one time before my mother's death, traveled the country with an orchestra. It was wonderful to see the many pictures and trinkets he would return with. And if my mother and I had tuned in to the radio at exactly 7:30 every Monday and Wednesday evening, we would have a chance to listen to them play live. Tragically, as my mother had left our family, so my father left the orchestra to tend to his motherless child and to his own broken soul.

And here he stays, spending what time he has tending to me and himself.

"How is the casserole my dear?" Father inquired, smiling from across the table. I smiled and tasted my first bite. It was a simple tuna casserole with steamed vegetables for the side.

"Very well made father, I think this is the best one yet!" I said, smiling. And I meant that, it did taste good knowing that father now spends every day loving mother through the things he does for me and this home.

As dinner ended, I was about to recede to my lair when father asked if I could spare a few minutes for a chat. I remained in my chair, facing father across the table from me.

"You have yet to speak of our recent visitors to me. How did you fare with them my dear?" Father asked, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

"I do believe they came with good intentions, but they were rather strange." I outright spoke, conveying to father how I felt. Hiding from father was not an option, he somehow could see right through me at all times. So I prefer speaking the truth. No matter how blunt and hurtful.

"Yes, I thought you would say so." Father chuckled. "Have you done anything with your gift?"

I looked surprised at father, "No, I haven't touched it since the day it was given. I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm not sure what it is really."

"Oh! How foolish of Mr. Bozonnet not to tell you, it's a reference book my dear. Mr. Bozonnet had seen pictures of your work and has brought that book with him because your art reminded him of the pictures in that book. He proclaimed that you were merely copying from that book, but truth be told, I explained that you have never crossed such a book in your life, since it is one of a kind."

"One of a kind?" I asked.

"Yes my dear, straight from the restricted section of Mr. Bozonnet's great-great grandfathers personal library! Oh, what hooligans Faust and I were when we were just lads. You see, if my memory serves me right, that is the same book Faust and I would read together in the wee hours of the morning imagining tales of swordsmen and archers, dwarfs and goblins, enchanted lands of mythical creatures where dark foes desired to conquer all!" Father exclaimed, sounding absolutely wistful as he recalled his younger years.

"Well that's a relief." I muttered as I stood from the table. After thanking my father for the delicious dinner, I ascended the flight of stairs.

Yet before my foot could reach the top of the second floor, father's voice echoed from the kitchen, "Ellena, I want you to remember to come back and tell me what you think of that book once your finished with it."

Curious, I agreed and continued to my lair.

I opened the door to my study, slightly wary of the item on my desk. The lamp was still glowing as I took my seat before it. Pausing, I then reached over the table and picked the book up.

' _Such a small book to be filled with illustrations._ ' I thought as I opened it up for the first time. And before I could recognize the image on the page, the pages of the book itself began bleeding a glowing white light!

"What?" I gasped as I tried to thrust the book from my hand, but yet it stayed. It were as if the book had been glued to me! Quickly, the glowing grew from a few specks on the page to enveloping the entire book. I then felt a tug coming from the books direction. And without another thought, my body was lifted from the place I sat towards the book in my hand, and then all I saw was light.


End file.
